"Hmm," mused Antonin, rubbing his chin. "Yes, we do not want Mister Kluh dead. That would be making Miss Toki very angry, yes? But we do not want him being to get away. That would be making Miss Toki angrier still."
The old beggar fiddled for a moment, then unshouldered the bruised, battered mandolin strapped to his back with a ratty leather thong. He held it in hand, strumming the threadbare strings as he gazed appraisingly at his prisoner.
"I am finding that music helps Antonin to think," he says by way of explanation. "And Antonin must think, yes? He needs to think if he is going to find a way out of this for you, Mister Kluh." Though the decrepit, aged man was doing nothing more than pick idly at the strings of his mandolin, the chords that came forth seemed by coincidence to form a simple melody. Unimpressive though it sounded, it was impossible to push the childish tune out of one's head.
He smirks slightly. "Maybe you help Antonin to think, Mister Kluh?"